Category: Travel

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Not Writing About the New Forest

I said yesterday that today I’d write about going to the New Forest, but when I try to start there are so many other things I’m thinking about, like I got up at 6.00 because that’s what I decided I should do, although that’s still not ‘first thing’ because I’ve been awake since 4.00, reading and listening to the radio. And at 6.00 it’s still dark, so that’s how it’s going to be from now, probably till March or maybe April, I’m not sure.  

I thought I’d come straight to the computer and start writing, but I fed the cat and let her out, then wondered whether to make coffee, because usually I do my exercise first, and then should I use my espresso pot or the Tassimo, which is quicker but only makes a small cup? And thinking about how I should start, where I should start, about moving here and what it is about the south coast for me, and when did I first go to the New Forest, what is the attraction? And issues around the van, because it’s brought me so much stress and expense down the years, but I have to not think about that, and that’s a split infinitive, but apart from the fact that it’s quite passé to care about split infinitives, it’s important because what I was trying to say there is subtly different from how else it could be said: ‘can’t think’ or ‘mustn’t think’ is different from a choice to ‘not think’ about something, so arguably that two word phrase is a verb in itself, and ‘to not think’ is the infinitive form of that compound verb.

Speaking about ‘choice’, the choice about coffee is a decision in itself, with the factors of speed, flavour and quantity of coffee all having to be taken into account and balanced, and the outcome of that decision (to prioritise speed and use the Tassimo) is that the coffee has already gone and I haven’t finished writing.

Which reminded me of a conversation I had yesterday with the garage man about keeping UHT milk in the van (his suggestion), but once it’s been opened, it only keeps as well as normal milk, so I might as well just take a small bottle of fresh milk with me each time, which is what I do.

This is how my mind works all the time – bouncing from one apparently trivial and meaningless thought to another. I used to assume that it was the same for everybody, but that other people were better than me at cutting through the crap and dealing with it. Now I’m beginning to understand that it goes deeper than that. That’s why the idea of ‘thinking visually’ blew my mind, though I’m now coming to think that that’s probably not as prevalent as I’ve been led to believe – I honestly don’t see how it could be. Thinking is thinking and it’s made up of words and depends on words, and that’s that.

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Another Morning

Been thinking that maybe I should reorganise my morning routine. If I did the writing before the exercise, that would be more in keeping with Dorothea Brande’s original instructions. I could get up an hour earlier and write, instead of lying in bed trying/hoping to get back to sleep. I resolve to do it, and then, when the time comes… I could move the ‘gentle alarm’ on the Sleep Cycle app forward from 7-7.30 to 6.30-7.00 – the half hour is because it’s supposed to detect whereabouts your sleep is, and go off when you’re in the most appropriate sleep phase for waking (until it comes to the end of the period, when it goes off anyway). It’s fairly immaterial, given that I almost never hear it because I’ve already stopped the app before then – except for the extremely rare occasions when I HAVE managed to get back to sleep.

Whatever, it’s only going to get harder as we move inexorably from the light half of the year into the dark.

Had a day out yesterday, with my camper van, which only got back on the road after lockdown last week. Another new battery, another stern warning from the garage that I need to use it regularly. The new (refurbished) battery they fitted last year was so tightly connected that I couldn’t disconnect it over winter, so when I tried it in March they said they would come and recharge it, but it wasn’t a priority either for them or for me in the following months, so although they’ve had the keys all that time, I hadn’t been chasing them about it.

Well, it’s going now, and last week I took it out for a picnic in the Queen Elizabeth Country Park, off the A3 heading for London, and my favourite go-to place for a significant non-overnight jaunt. Yesterday I went in the other direction, to the New Forest, which I’ve never done as a day out before, always camped, even though it’s only an hour’s drive. I had a vision of a memory from the last time I was there, this time last year, of the empty moors covered with purple flowering heather, seen from the open-top tour bus. I had another memory too, from a few years earlier, when I drove my old Micra back from Dorset to Bedford over two days with an overnight stop in Salisbury, of walking on the same moors in early summer.

I should write more about this. Why am I reluctant to write about happy things? Perhaps because I’m afraid I can’t do them justice? Or because, when you try to describe something like that, you – I – never feel I can capture the essence of what made it special? Like trying to take photographs and then being disappointed with all of them. Writing words and being disappointed with all of them. I got lost, I found somewhere to stop, sat on a tree stump and looked at the view.

Maybe I’ll try tomorrow.

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Bother

Why do I bother? God knows. I haven’t got a clue.

I did another of the five items on the list yesterday – and a bit of another (sorting out my accounts, which is going to be a long job), and had a stab at another (renewing the insurance on my van) but got stymied by the technology, because I thought I could renew it online, but couldn’t see how, so now I don’t know if it will renew automatically or if I have to call them – which reminds me that the van itself is a can of worms, because I need to call the garage – but I don’t want to use it at present anyway.

You’ll notice there are still five items – I haven’t added any more, although I keep thinking of them, but I never remember to write them on the list. However, I did do last night’s washing up when I got up, and tidied and wiped the kitchen counters and sink (again). We’ll see how long that lasts.

I made a plan yesterday evening that if I was awake early enough this morning I would walk to the beach and watch the sunrise, but I slept in till 5.20, so there wasn’t time to get myself sorted and to the beach before the actual sunrise at 5.37.  And although I don’t really like lying in bed when I know I won’t get back to sleep, I still don’t want to get up either, even now, when it’s warm.

This is why I’ve decided that routine is so important, because if I know what I ‘should’ be doing, maybe that will push me (‘motivate’ is too strong a word) into doing things even when I really don’t feel like it (which is about 23 hours and 55 minutes of every day). Given that I’ve got quite good about doing my half hour of exercise and meditation, and writing my 500 words of drivel, over the last few months, I’m hoping that maybe I can squeeze some more useful and positive habits into my days.

I’ve given some thought in the past to how to get over the problem I was talking about yesterday, of never knowing where I’ve left things. One solution would be to constantly scan every room for anything which isn’t in its ‘specific place’ and return it so I can find it when I need it again – the price of liberty is eternal vigilance. I guess that’s what most non-cahotic (I like that typo, I think I’ll leave it) people do automatically – but the idea fills me with horror and deadens my soul. There wouldn’t be time for anything else, would there? But then if it actually worked, wouldn’t it save the time and stress of constantly searching for things? I think of my spirit animal, Mole from The Wind in the Willows, throwing down his paintbrush and running out into the springtime to cries of ‘Bother!’ and ‘Oh blow!’ and ‘Hang spring-cleaning!’

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Remembering Cannes

No romantic poetic thoughts about the French Riviera last night. When I was in Cannes in 2012, I remember it struck me as tacky, over-privileged, overcrowded, superficial, artificial. I spent a lot of time there in McDonald’s, home-from-home of the American teenager, using the free wifi to work out my onward plans and arrangements. Maybe I should have gone to Nice, as a friend recommended, for the flower market and the Matisse (or is it Cezanne?) museum, but for some reason I thought Cannes would be more ‘classy’ – when it was just more expensive.

But I must have done something other than sit in McD’s getting stressed over Google, surely? There was the flea market, I remember that. I walked up a hill to a chapel with a view, a posing pigeon, a sexy photographer, a statue of an oddly grinning Madonna and child, and a museum which was closed for lunch, so I ate chocolate and drank water in the garden instead. How do I remember all this? Because I wrote it down at the time for my blog, then used it (or at least re-read it) when I was editing ‘Single to Sirkeci’. I even have a photo of the statue somewhere, which is why I remember her odd expression. Also one of the posing seagull – it wasn’t a pigeon, see, my memory’s not that good – although my alliteration is admirable. I ate crepes on the promenade, had a fabulous Provenҫal seafood dinner on my last night there (onward travel arrangements and accommodation having been confirmed) and swam in the sea. It was the vernal equinox – or thereabouts.

By the summer solstice, I hadn’t quite made it to Norway, as planned, but was in Berlin, in freezing cold and driving rain, sheltering in the national art museums, poring over an exhibition of Goya’s engravings of horror and war. And eight years ago today, where was I then? From the ‘memories’ of Lübeck and Flensburg that popped up on Facebook a few days ago, I guess I would have reached Copenhagen by now. Yes, I am lucky to have those memories, lucky that I wrote them down, and I should probably finish off that book with the later ones.

What was I thinking about when I woke up? Trying to remember what I’d been dreaming about, whatever that was. Then the usual probably. Or remembering Cannes, which would explain why I wrote about it just now.

Life is a story that we tell ourselves, over and over, and maybe it changes with each retelling, because how would you know? I seem to remember writing, somewhere on my travels, about how life distracts from writing and writing distracts from life, how they feed on one another and interfere with one another in an incestuous, abusive relationship – or maybe that’s not how I put it, maybe that’s what I thought just now.

One thing I know for sure, we can never know the ending of our life-story until it’s too late.

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Parallels

Staring at the screen trying to think of something ‘nice’ to say. Growing sense of discomfort all week, not just because of the heat – which even I have to admit tipped over into ‘hot’ yesterday – might even be in the red today (thirty plus), if the forecasts are correct.  

Looking back, I often put forward my travelling times in 2012 and 2013 (counting my sojourn in Prague as a continuation) as a happy time of my life, but it wasn’t always idyllic. Partly that was because of the irritations and frustrations of planning and organisation: finding accommodation; co-ordinating with friends and family I was hoping to visit; deciding routes; booking tickets; etc etc. There was also a degree of guilt over the pointlessness, self-indulgence and irresponsibility of what I was doing (although the blog posts I wrote at the time did lead – eventually – to the completion of ‘Single to Sirkeci’, and there’s still potential in there for another book – or two). The third source of stress was the knowledge that the life I was living would have to end at some time and I would be forced to return to the life I’d run away from – or some hazily understood and recognised version of it.

Perhaps you can see where this train of thought is going. There are clearly parallels between the feelings I had then, and the ones I’m having now. Daily life has its irritations and frustrations – though not quite as dramatic as working out where I’m going to be sleeping tomorrow night, and where travelling to after that. I’m certainly feeling guilt over the way I spend my days, the worthlessness of my life and the activities (or inactivity) I engage in, although that seems more forgivable now I’m officially ‘retired’, ie I’m no longer obliged to look for paid work in order to pay the bills (I do feel guilt over that in itself, but I’ve learned to come to terms with it). The third point, of course, is uneasiness about what happens next, moving back into a life of having to engage with the external world more directly after this period of quiet, solitude and reflection, of pleasing myself.

I look inside myself to see if I’m any better prepared than I was when I came back in 2012, or from Prague in early 2014. Every morning I check myself and think: nope, I’m still me, no sign of any miraculous transformation yet. I poke around in the past and I think I’m gaining a better understanding of who I am and the factors that made me, but still can’t find any way of unravelling the threads and exorcising the demons.

I didn’t want to write anything this morning. One of those mornings when it didn’t seem possible to find anything ‘nice’ to say. However, as I approach my quota, I’m not too dissatisfied with what I have written.

Over three months of this ‘lockdown diary’, I must have written about 45,000 words. Maybe there’s something in there worth saving.

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Same Old Same Old

Every day starts the same, same old stuff to get out of bed to.

Same old effort to justify myself to myself, to occupy myself – my time, hands, part of my brain that doesn’t need to be taxed too much. Just ‘do’ it, whatever ‘it’ is, get on with it. Going through the same old pointless motions. Trying to manage the thoughts in my head. Trying to drag out words from the back of my brain, words that never add up to anything, words that no one wants to read. Piling them up inside my computer, words upon sentences upon paragraphs and on and on, words that might last forever out in cyberspace but will never be consigned to ink on paper.

Trying not to think.

But when there is something else to do, something else I need to do, or feel I ‘should’ do, it’s even worse. Then I panic, because I don’t want to be dragged out into the world.

What a sorry specimen I am.

Yesterday I knew to expect a parcel delivery. But I ate breakfast in the garden anyway. And when I came inside there was a note through the door from UPS saying they were sorry they’d missed me, but the parcel is now at Costcutter on Such-and-such street, and if I don’t collect it within ten days it will be returned to the sender. Bugger.

It’s a big heavy parcel, too. So I’ll have to take the car – I had a similar one last year and tried walking with it, and wished I hadn’t. But the car hasn’t moved since I got it back from its MOT right at the start of lockdown, in late March. What if it doesn’t start? Then I’ll have to call the guys from the garage. When can I pick up the parcel? Not till tomorrow (ie, today now). I couldn’t spend 24 hours worrying about whether or not the car would start. So I had to drive it somewhere.

That took effort. But it did start. Which was a relief, because what if it hadn’t, and I had to go through the same conversation with the garage guys that I have every spring about the van (which as far as I know is still immobile. I spoke to them about the MOT a couple of weeks ago, and they confirmed that it doesn’t need to be done now till December, but although there are two sets of keys, and they have one from when I asked them to get it going pre-lockdown, and I have the other, I can’t get into it because they have the only one for the garage.)

But the car started. And I drove it about the back streets for a while, but all the roads are a mess because they’re laying 5g cables everywhere. So today I will have to think of a different route to go and collect my parcel.

And for this I’m getting wound up. I am a wreck.

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One Day

Second poem from yesterday, as mentioned last night on Facebook – written yesterday evening just before I went to bed (I’d had a night cap of Becherovka with my hot chocolate, and was quite merry).

One day I’ll leave this house,
walk to the bus stop,
catch a train to the city,
or anywhere else,
under the sea,
and into the sunrise.

Or go like a snail,
with my home on my back,
to the forest, or the marshes,
or into the sunset.
To friends, and memories, and new beginnings,
talking and laughing and dancing and singing.

But today I am here,
and here is my home.

Linda Rushby 19 June 2020

What follows is a few lines I jotted into my notebook after I got into bed – they’d popped into my head as I was getting ready for bed, and sort of follow on, but are a bit different. It was actually after midnight at the time, so I added today’s date.

While there are:
Books left to read.
Words left to write.
Waves to listen to.
Gulls to fly over me.
Songs left to sing.
Wine left to drink.
Places to return to.
New ones to find.
I am glad to be here.

Linda Rushby 20 June 2020
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Camper Van Woes – (and) an Epic Saga

Yesterday I called the garage because my camper van is due for its MOT on 18th June. They told me I didn’t need to get it done – I said I’d been told the grace period for MOTs stopped at the end of May. He’s going to check and get back to me.

They’ve still got the keys, because I tried to start it in March and couldn’t, so I dropped the keys round for them to look at it. He said yesterday that they’d done that, but they hadn’t told me – not that I could have done anything, because it was in that week when the lockdown started. I normally disconnect the battery when it’s standing over winter, but they put a new one in last autumn and the nut was screwed up too tight for me to turn it.

He’s going to find out about the MOT and call me back today.

I went on the camping club website to find out when the campsites will be opening – I’m assuming July. I checked the two sites I use most often to see if I could book, there was nothing to say I couldn’t, on the booking page it just said ‘click on the calendar’, but I tried that both times and nothing happened – I don’t know if that was because the links weren’t there or just because my wifi is so poor.

What are the campsites going to be like anyway? If I could find somewhere that’s guaranteed to be quiet it would be okay, but I don’t want to go anywhere that’s rammed with people. I haven’t even used my car since it was MOTed in March. I could take the van out for picnics rather than overnight stays, but I’m not sure where. It feels like it might make sense just to leave it in the garage for a while, maybe even SORN it, and get the MOT done when I’m ready to use it again.

I do wonder how I’m going to organise my life when things open up a bit more. It’s a strange world out there. I don’t want to think about it. I don’t make plans at the best of times. Euphoria, existential despair, or what-shall-I-have-for-dinner? (Good question – probably leftover curry and rice.) Zoom tai chi this evening – if the sound works – it didn’t last week, I struggled to follow it, but if that happens again I won’t bother.

Been listening to ‘Tumanbay’ on BBC Sounds, an epic saga set in an imaginary middle-eastern country – 1001 Nights without the magic but with lots of intrigue, spies, deception and violence. Radio 4 is currently broadcasting series 4, but I discovered it in 2017 when series 2 was being broadcast, didn’t think it was my kind of thing at first, but when I went back to series 1 it made more sense and I got hooked. I’ve spent the last two days binge-listening to series1 again, now I’m looking forward to the rest.

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The Hermit (Part 2)

Weekly therapy session on Skype yesterday. The evening before, I was feeling quite down, but by the time lunchtime rolled around I was wondering what we were going to talk about.

She remarked that for the second week running I seemed to be quite happy and content with life. This week I did my shopping in Sainsbury’s, and used the self checkout, so I didn’t even have to interact with the checkout person, as I did last week in the Co-op. Not having to be with people suits me. I think about good friends I’ve known, how much I’ve enjoyed spending time with them, some who’ve helped, bullied or cajoled me onto new paths through my life, and the joy of my children and grandchildren, I’m aware of all those things, but still I think: enough, now it’s enough just to be on my own, doing what I want, when I want, how I want. ‘Snow can hurt your eyes, but only people make you cry.’ I’m even managing to be kinder to myself, less judgemental over the chaos, quietening the critical voices. I think about the times when I was travelling, how I revelled in just being, in anonymity and invisibility, looking out of the window of a train, or sipping coffee on a café terrace, just to be somewhere without feeling I needed to justify myself to anyone. That’s how it is now: sitting in my garden in the sunshine, or in my bay window listening to the radio and crocheting, or at my PC in the mornings pouring out my words from the wellspring of my soul. This is who I am.

I talked to her about my thoughts on the stages of grief, somewhat apprehensive that I’d taken it the wrong way, or that she’d say it was outdated or I was oversimplifying (a little knowledge is a dangerous thing). But she was genuinely interested in what I was saying, she explained some of the background, where the original ideas had come from and, yes, it has been distorted and misused but it still has application, and no, it’s not just ‘pop psych’. She said I’d latched on to the crucial point that it can be hard to distinguish between ‘denial’ and ‘acceptance’, that it can be cyclical and it’s not always a straight progression to a nirvana of acceptance.

I think perhaps this time of being home alone, of not pushing myself out into the world to interact with others, has been exactly what I need. So much of my emotional life has been taken up with that sense of incompleteness and failure as a person, the hopeless quest for a soulmate to fill the void in myself. Enough.

But the time will come when I’ll have to go out there again, and I will have to be with people, and things will happen that will bring me down. I don’t know how to prepare for that. But at least now I recognise the danger.

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Day 18 – Istanbul

I saw a photograph today,
of a sandstone palace,
frosted with blue and white tiles.
And I thought of Istanbul,
though I knew it couldn’t be.

‘Germany’ I guessed,
‘another of Mad King Ludwig’s confections’
(I’ve been caught out like that before).
But no, it was Seville, and I thought
‘Aha, Moorish influences!’
and ‘I must go there one day,
to southern Spain.’

But oh, Istanbul,
beautiful, dirty, noisy city of my dreams.
Byzantium, city of Constantine,
with your minarets and domes, gardens and palaces,
cats, magpies and wonderful cafes,
sunshine and storms and clinging fogs,
and best of all, your waterways,
ships and ferries and fishermen on Galata Bridge.

The taste of that fresh fish sandwich,
bought from the boat, where I watched them fry it
over a brazier by the water’s edge.
Or the tea I poured from a double pot,
the russet colour, clear as the glass I sipped it from
as fragrant as the roses in Gülhane Park
a sensual delight, sweet as the pastries
in Hafiz Mustafa’s.

Perhaps one day I’ll find
my way back to you,
(though somehow I know I won’t)
but you’ll always be there
in my heart.

Linda Rushby 18 April 2020
Gulhane Park, Istanbul May 2012

http://damson-tree.co.uk/travel/?cat=39